First Kiss

            At the time, I had five little brothers and three little sisters.  They were adorable, but left little room for privacy in the house.  My boyfriend and I were out in the garage, hiding from the children.  My dad was at work, so the car was gone and half the garage was empty.  The air smelled dusty, like cement and unfinished walls.   A bare lightbulb on the ceiling and one small window left the space dim and shadowy.  Dust motes floated in the sunbeam. 

            I was convinced the boy standing in front of me was the one I would marry, the one with whom I would raise children and grow old.  His dark brown eyes looked back into mine, and I could see into his very soul, where he felt the same way, naturally.  At fifteen, the whole of the universe lay at my feet, mine for the taking.  I wanted only this boy, and our easy friendship.

            I didn’t know how I felt about the fluttery, nervous feeling in my stomach.  Physical attraction was new and exciting, and I had no idea what to do with it.  I held his hand in the halls at school, and sent long, ridiculous notes declaring my undying devotion, but I had never kissed him in all that time.  In this moment, I knew he wanted to kiss me.  And I wanted to kiss him.  I was eager and terrified, unsure and pretending to be confident and mature.  He leaned toward me, I tilted my head up to meet him, and, just like magic

            A spider dropped from the ceiling, spinning silk just long enough to dangle right between our faces.  I screamed, jumped back about three feet.  It was a tiny spider, not much bigger than the dust motes in the sunbeam, but those wiggling legs made it clear this was not dust.  I was much more afraid of the spider than I was interested in kissing.  The moment was ruined, destroyed completely.  The boy killed the spider, laughing at my fear, and we left the garage to hang out with my family. 

            We stopped seeing each other shortly after the spider incident.  I had noticed there were other boys in the world who might also be interesting.  I went on to pursue new relationships and other interests.  I watched him from the corner of my eye all the way through high school, wondering what might have happened.  This boy was my first love, and decades later, that spider is etched in my memory, wiggling in front of the most beautiful eyes.

On Being a Trophy Wife

            “I can’t marry you.  I’ll be ready to talk later,” I type in an instant message.  I love him, of course, but this would be a second marriage for both of us.  He comes with baggage.  He comes with children, an ex-wife, old habits and traditions.  He comes with a grandchild.  If I marry him, I will be a grandmother.  I can’t possibly be a grandmother.  I’m young, and active, and young, and healthy, and young.  Much too young to be someone’s grandmother. 

            “Please talk to me.  I love you,” the computer screen says when I return to my desk.  I don’t know if I can talk about it.  It doesn’t make sense when I say it.  I love his granddaughter.  She is one year old, adorable with chocolate brown eyes and dark curls.  Of course I want her to be part of my family.  I just don’t want to be a grandmother.

            He is much older than I.  He is old enough to be a grandfather.  He wants to be a grandfather.  I am ready to flee a promising relationship because I hate the word grandmother. 

I am not like them.  They are old people, with gray hair and canes and rocking chairs.  Their teeth fall out, and they have to get beautiful, new, pretend teeth that they leave in glasses on the nightstand, ready to scare unsuspecting children who come to visit unexpectedly.  They wear bifocals and hearing aids and still can’t see or hear.  They take handfuls of pills to keep their internal organs functioning.  Their hair thins.  Their skin wrinkles.  They use weird old figures of speech and don’t understand anything kids say nowadays.

            I am much too cool to be that woman.

            “I can’t be a grandmother.  I’m not ready for that,” I send.

            “But you love Kylie,” he responds.

            “That’s not the point!”

            Let’s not forget that I would be married to a grandfather.  They are old people, too.  They have aching backs and stiff knees.  They are grumpy.  They have hair growing from their noses and ears, and no hair growing from their heads.  They have heart disease and erectile dysfunction.  They groan when they sit down, and groan when they stand up again.  Their belts are too high, their ties are too short, and dark socks never go well with sandals. 

            I am much too cool to be married to that man.

            “Then what is the point, exactly,” he asks.  It’s a reasonable question. 

            Grandmothers bake cookies and bread; I collect Batman art.  They wear velour jogging suits; I wear high heels and dark wash denim.  They wear bright lipstick that bleeds into the wrinkles around their lips; I wear black eyeliner in carefully drawn cat-eye lines.  They complain about the price of gas these days and remember when gas was less than a dollar per gallon; I—okay, I do that, too. 

            “The point,” I pound on the keyboard, “is that I don’t want to be old.”

            “Being my wife won’t make you old.  You aren’t making much sense,” appears almost immediately on my screen.

            Grandmothers read stories to small children; I like children’s literature.  They allow ice cream before dinner; I like ice cream before dinner.  They are indulgent with their grandchildren and reprimand their own children for being too hard on the youngest generation; I can learn to do that.  They wear large diamonds before six o’clock, drive comfortable cars, own fur coats, and eat dark chocolate; I can love to do that. 

            “I know that.”  He’s right, I’m not making sense.  “But I’m scared.”

            That is the answer.  I didn’t know it until I typed it.  I’m scared.  I’m scared of the secret my hair colorist keeps for me.  I’m scared of the fine lines appearing around my eyes.  I’m scared of turning into my mother, hearing her words and attitudes in my voice, seeing her hands resting on my keyboard.  I’m scared of wearing purple with red hats and other things that do not go and do not suit me (Joseph).  I’m scared of losing my memory and my mobility.  I’m scared of getting older.

            “Scared?  What are you afraid of?”  He is puzzled.

            “Being a grandmother.  Being old.”

            “I’m coming over.  You’re being silly.”

            He does, and we talk, and we think of a hundred things she can call me that aren’t grandmother.  And I remember that I love her, and I love him.  It’s not so scary after all.

            When she is two, she chooses to call me Grandma Les.  I love it.

Joseph, Jenny. "When I Am an Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple." Martz, Sandra. When I Am An Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple. Watsonville, California: Papier MacHe Press, 1991.

Confessions

·         I freak out over grades, but I really don’t do everything I could do for the A.

·         I don’t really like the girl who sits next to me in my ASL 2020 class

·         She never stops talking

·         Ever!

·         But she thinks we’re good friends

·         It’s true, I have no heart.

·         I don’t know what the hell I’m doing when I pretend to be a parent

·         I make everything up on the fly

·         Is “wing it” a good approach to parenting?

·         I think gay jokes are hilarious

·         I’m easily entertained.

·         I hate reading “Church Books”

·         No, not the canon

·         I mean the ones that everyone raves about that you buy at Deseret Book for $35.95 in hardcover

·         They bore me silly.

·         I don’t really like “outside”

·         I do like shopping, and musical theater.

·         I wear real diamonds

·         Even though I know I shouldn’t.

·         I go to the movies just for the popcorn

·         With extra butter

·         LOTS of extra butter

·         I make up for is by not eating anything else on movie days

·         A person can live on popcorn and Diet Pepsi, right?

·         I wear sunglasses to hide the wrinkles around my eyes

·         Because I say I don’t mind getting older

·         But I lie.

·         I actually believe you all care about what I have to confess

·         If you don’t, don’t tell me.  Leave me to my delusions.

What I Believe

            I believe in the power of prayer, of faith, of hope.  I believe that God wants to hear what we, His children, are thinking and feeling.  I believe prayer is a direct way to communicate with God.  I believe there are many things God wants to tell us and do for us and give us, but I believe we are free to choose, and God will not force these gifts on us; we must ask for them.  I believe prayer allows us to free our minds and hearts by laying our burdens on the broad shoulders of the Lord. 

            I believe God speaks to us today as he did in Bible times.  I believe He loves us today, and does not leave us to walk blindly or alone.  I believe in living prophets who speak with love and power as directed by God. 

            I believe in the example of Jesus Christ.  I believe He lived on Earth as a man to show us how to live, how to love, how to give and teach and learn.  I believe that by following His example, we find true peace and joy in this life, and in life after death.

            I believe in free agency.  I believe we have the power and the right to choose our own paths, to choose right or wrong, left or right.  I believe that we have the obligation to study our choices, learn all we can, and make the best choice possible.  I believe that answers to prayer, earnestly sought, can guide these choices.  I believe that sometimes the answer is, “Choose for yourself, and I will love you either way.”  I believe other times the answer is clear and definite.  I believe God will not leave us in the dark when eternity hangs in the balance.

            I believe in the power of love and charity.  I believe this is the greatest gift God has for us, and the greatest gift we have for each other.  I believe in kindness, gentleness, compassion, and empathy.  I believe God wants us to love ourselves and our neighbors.  I believe real, Christ-like love can bring lasting peace on Earth. 

            I believe in families.  I believe in parents, and grandparents, and great-grandparents, and so on in a line back to Adam, connecting all of humanity.  I believe in nuclear families, with parents and children working to overcome trials, together.  I believe in marriage.  I believe in respect and acceptance.  I believe strong families make strong communities.

            I believe in the power of people.  I believe people can come together and do great good in the world.  I believe in people like Martin Luther King, like Mother Theresa, like Gregory Hlibok.  I believe we can make a difference.  I believe we must make a difference, we have an obligation to make the world a better place because we are in it. 

            I believe in you.  Yes, you, reading this.  You are a child of God, and you have Divine potential to be great.  

Dad

My father looked awful, frankly: pale and tired, dark circles under his eyes, ragged whiskers in place of his usual impeccably groomed beard.  He slumped sideways against the hospital bed, too weak to hold his body upright.  He may have known me, but his vague eyes didn’t give any hint of recognition. 

            The room tried to look like anything other than what it was.  Dark wood dressers leaned against a wall, the blinds were cracked to let narrow lines of sunshine in, a short armchair with too-thin cushions crouched in the corner, a nightstand holds a magazine and Dad’s smart phone.  The pretense failed to cover the reality of the adjustable bed frame tilted up to help Dad breathe or the blinking lights monitoring signs of life.  The overhead lights were too bright, the tv was mounted to the wall for easier viewing from the bed.  Antiseptic scented air blew too cold from the vents, and institutional food sat, untouched, on the bedside table.

            Dad’s voice was breathy and faint, but I knew he was still himself when he spoke.  “Will you do me a favor?  Bring my laptop, my Kindle, and my iPod.  I might need them.”  Yep.  If he was asking for his electronics, Dad was going to be just fine.

I Am Afraid

Of heights, deep water, spiders, zombies and ghosts, driving in heavy rain, dark.

            I am afraid my children will never forgive me and will think I was a bad mother.  I used to yell at my kids, and their little faces crumpled in pain that I caused, blinking back tears and whispering, “Sorry, Mommy,” when I stopped yelling.  Sometimes I cried, too.

            I am afraid of flunking out of college.  I am too old, too set in my ways, too far past the age when languages come easily, too busy, too dumb, too disorganized.  There is no way I can keep up with these college kids.

            I am afraid of Dr. Nichols, Dr. Tanner, and Professor Legg. 

            I am afraid of meeting new people.  I never know what to say or how to say it.  I am awkward and shy, but I think I come across as snobbish and unfriendly, which makes me more awkward and shy.  I am afraid I’ll never make friends at school, and more afraid that I will.  If I make friends, I have to maintain a relationship with real conversation, more than just casual greetings. 

            I am afraid of emotional exposure, looking foolish, feeling lost, loud noises.  I am afraid that this paper will escape into the public eye . . .

Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle

            Confessions are part of life for devout Catholics the world over.  The opportunity to confess and repent, in order to obtain forgiveness, is a blessing for the deeply religious Catholic.  Catholic priests in Washington, D.C. hear confessions, or what passes for confession in that great city of America.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen” (Taylor).

            “Bless me, Father, for sins have been committed.  It has been one election cycle since my last confession.”

            “What sins have you committed, my son?”

            “Oh, I can neither confirm nor deny that it was me caught in sin, Father.  But it is possible some things were taken out of context, or twisted to further the cause of my opponent.

            “Funds have been misappropriated, or rather, misplaced.  There is money that cannot be accounted for in any public records.  I have no knowledge of where these funds came from, nor can I say where they currently are.  My opponent believes it is my responsibility to keep track of my campaign funds, but I’m a busy man.  I cannot be responsible for the actions of others who act without my knowledge.”

            “I see.  Go on.”

            “Sexual relations have been had with an intern in the oval office.  Again, I can neither confirm nor deny this act, but there is no proof that I was in my office that day.  Anyway, by my definition of the phrase, there were no sexual relations of any kind in the oval office, then or any other day.  That woman is not known to me, and I have no recollection of her ever being in my office.”

            “You have no recollection of a pretty woman who worked for you?”

            “She may or may not have worked for me, Father, but I have no recollection of her being in my office at any time.”

            “Go on, my son.”

            “Some records have been destroyed, without my participation or knowledge.  The destruction of the records was ordered, but I am not a crook.  I was not in the building at the time the records were destroyed.  Criminal acts were documented in the destroyed records, but I have no knowledge of those activities.”

            “Of course you don’t.  Go on, please.”

            “It was suggested that FEMA be disbanded, leaving victims of natural disasters stranded.  Sandy destroyed the upper Eastern coastal cities, and FEMA will move in their aid.  After this disaster, FEMA may be discontinued due to political climate and financial concerns.  My concern, of course, is only with the people who are suffering in the aftermath of the storm.  Those reporters had no right to ask me about early campaign rhetoric in the face of all that suffering.”

            “So you think the reporters sinned?”

            “Yes, Father.  Compassion was not shown.

            “Please grant absolution and forgiveness for the sins that have been committed.”

“Please, my son, pray for the souls of any who may have sinned, with or without your knowledge.”

            “O my God, I am sorry if You have been offended.  Wrongs have been chosen, and good has gone undone.  I firmly intend, with Your help, to avoid getting caught in sin.  Our Savior suffered and died for us.  In His name, have mercy on those who need mercy.”

            “God the Father of Mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has brought forgiveness of sin to the world.  Through the ministry of the Church, I grant pardon and absolution to those who have sinned in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen” (Taylor).

            “Thank you, Father.  May I count on your support this November?”

Bibliography

Archdiocese of Washington. Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle. 2007. 1 November 2012.

Taylor. Catholicteenapologetics. 24 May 2012. 1 November 2012.